


Finally home

by LondonGypsy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Feelings, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Love Confessions, M/M, Parentlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Plays the Violin, settling back into 221b with a baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:19:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9382205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonGypsy/pseuds/LondonGypsy
Summary: After the final problem is solved, after everything's resolved, and Sherlock and John have returned to a more or less ordinary life, there's only one ting left to do.But can they eventually admit what everyone else already knew for a long time, or are they still too blind to see?





	

**Author's Note:**

> God, the ideas I have for all the fluffy (and apparently a bit angsty) ParentLock are driving me nuts. So here's the first of probably many more.
> 
> A huge thank you goes to my lovely betas: [JustSemiotics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JustSemiotics/pseuds/JustSemiotics) , [SuperWhoLockGypsy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperWhoLockGypsy/pseuds/SuperWhoLockGypsy), [sherlockreacts](http://sherlockreacts.tumblr.com/)  
> and my other two lovelies!  
> Any remaining mistakes are my own!

John wakes to the sound of the violin, its soft music floating through the air like dust in sunlight. He rubs his eyes and casts a glance at the clock - 2:30 in the morning.  
Groaning, he sits up, instinctively checking on the cot in the corner. Suddenly he is wide awake, jumping to his feet. But before he can even start to panic, he hears a low murmur through the baby monitor on his bedside table. The violin stops for a moment, and John hears a soft gurgle.

"Hush, Watson, we mustn't wake your father. He's had a long day; we need to let him sleep."

John's lip twitches into a brief smile, and he lets out a relieved sigh.

"So, you don't like Bach, hm? What about some Chopin then? Always helps your father sleep," Sherlock continues, the crackling sounds of the baby monitor distorting his voice.

And suddenly John needs to see him, hear him talk in that incredibly gentle tone that makes his heart swell.    
He gets up, grabs his dressing gown, and shuffles down the stairs, careful not to be heard. Sherlock's got very keen ears, but John knows all his attention is on Rosie. Avoiding the last step, John creeps over the landing. The sitting room door is closed; probably to keep the warmth in. Winter had come a few days ago, covering London in frost, and going by the icy draft coming from downstairs, perhaps even bringing snow.

He sneaks towards the door leading into the kitchen, carefully eases it open, and slips into the dark room. Leaning against the door, he peaks through the archway into the sitting room. He can see Sherlock walking around, slowly, almost trance-like, never once ceasing playing. It's one of Chopin's Nocturnes, sad and bittersweet. It has banished more than one nightmare in John's time here. Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, he walks closer until he can see the entire room.

Rosie is on the sofa, propped into a few pillows, safely wrapped in her blanket. She looks a bit like an adorable larva, all bundled up, only her head peaking out, blinking heavily. She's tired but refuses to succumb to sleep. It makes John smile because it reminds him of Sherlock during a case: exhausted beyond belief, yet denying his body what it needs the most.

"Like father, like daughter," springs to John's mind, unbidden, and with a silent gasp he squashes that thought. She's not Sherlock's, and yet he behaves like she is.

Ever since they've moved back in - at Sherlock's insistence - he was a changed man. There are no more experiments in the kitchen, the table is clean and clutter free. As is the rest of the flat: the floor is regularly vacuumed, and everything Rosie might reach is moved away and out of her clumsy little hands. There is an abundance of pillows and blankets now, and they seem to increase every time John comes home from work.

'Home', John ponders, watching Sherlock sway to the music, 'is this home again?'  
He's always seen this - having moved back in - as a temporarily thing. Eurus is back in Sherrinford, but nobody actually knows what, _if_ , she's got anything more planned. She doesn't talk, and although Sherlock seems to have formed a musical bond with her, even he doesn't know what's going on in his estranged sister's mind.  
"It'd be better you and Rosie stay close to me until we figure out what's going on with her," Sherlock had said after one of his weekly visits.  
John had protested, had pointed out that 221b wasn't exactly childproof, and too small for three people, and Mrs. Hudson wasn't the youngest anymore, and-  
Sherlock had only raised an eyebrow at him, speaking volumes without saying a word, and John had known he didn't stand a chance. Mrs. Hudson had only clucked her tongue as he had brought it up with her, so John had just given in.

Deep down inside he was grateful though: his own flat didn't feel right, didn't feel like home anymore. Mary's presence was lurking in every shadow, her perfume still clinging to the curtains, her death still hanging over him like a dark cloud. He knew he couldn't - didn't want to really - stay there.    
Moving on then. Mary's words were still ghosting through his mind. He could go back to Sherlock's, at least for the time being. They could look after each other; make sure each of them was okay. Eventually, John could start looking for a new flat for Rosie and him. The thought alone hurt, but he had pushed it away. Later, he told himself - one step at a time.

Moving back in with Sherlock was easier than he had anticipated. By the time it took him to let out his old flat, Sherlock had made 221b as child-friendly as possible. John gaped at the changes, and Sherlock had just stood there, a smug smile on his face.  
They settled back in quickly. Not much had changed.  
They still bickered about everything and nothing. There were still body parts in the fridge. They still stayed up all night to solve a case. And yet everything was different.  
Now they bickered about who puts Rosie to bed and who had used up the last nappy. The body parts had their own fridge - with a lock - wedged between the new cupboards that held Rosie's everyday things. Sherlock got even pickier with cases, and to John's astonishment, none of them required being stabbed, shot at, or otherwise murdered. Sherlock made sure to only take cases that were - while still interesting for him - more or less safe.

Sherlock's soft voice tears him out of his head.

"You asleep yet, Watson?"

John opens his mouth to answer, but then he realizes Sherlock is talking to his daughter. Peering around the corner, he sees Sherlock bending down over the sofa where Rosie seems to be sound asleep.  
Lowering the violin, Sherlock turns, a contented smile on his lips. But the silence doesn't please Rosie; her heavy lids flutter open again, and she protests sleepily.

"You want some more?" Sherlock asks in a hushed voice, and as if she understands him, she gurgles, moving her tiny fists under the blanket.

Sherlock watches her intently, head tilted, violin propped against his chin, bow raised but not touching the strings.

"I know just the piece," he then says, sounding hesitant. He straightens his back, sets the bow to the strings and plays one note. It rings out low and sweet, echoing around the flat like ripples on a lake.

"I wrote this for your father," Sherlock murmurs, "when your mummy died."

Another achingly sad stroke of the bow, and more hushed words.

"I thought I'd lost him, you know. He wouldn’t talk to me and I-"

Sherlock's voice breaks, just a little, and John feels his heart break as well. He doesn't move, is barely able to breathe. He feels like an intruder and yet dares not to leave.

They have talked, eventually. Haltingly, stumbling over the words, hesitatingly admitting that they had made horrible mistakes, both of them. But in the end it had been worth it. After all those years, they had started anew, had slowly rebuilt their friendship. Nevertheless, they still didn't talk about everything: John's grief, Sherlock's guilt. Those were still some of the things they danced around. It got better though.  
John knew when Sherlock needed someone - not to talk - just to be there. Often they sat in silence, each in their chair, Rosie playing between them.  
Or when John needed to be alone. Then Sherlock took Rosie and went for a walk, or they visited Mrs. Hudson, leaving John to deal with it in the only way he knew. Afterwards, there was always something sweet: some of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, or the tea John loved, perfectly brewed.  
It wasn't perfect, and if John was honest with himself, it probably wasn't even healthy; but for them, it worked. And that was enough for now.  
But every once in awhile, John wonders if they should be trying more, doing more, talking more. He's still going to therapy, and he has the feeling Sherlock is too. Just another thing they don't talk about. John himself talks to Molly or Mrs. Hudson sometimes, not too much, mostly for some female advice. And he's fairly certain Sherlock does as well.

And apparently he's talking to Rosie, too. For now, she's too little to even understand, which is probably why he does it. And yet, John's father instincts get the better of him. He straightens from where he's standing, ready to step in.  
But before he can open his mouth, Sherlock's back tenses, and he says:

"Don't worry, John, I won't irreparably damage your daughter. It just slipped."

John flinches; despite himself, he had hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed him. Searching for words, he steps into the room but Sherlock shakes his head, turning towards him.

"I would never put any burdens on her, I hope you know that," he says quietly, only the tiniest hint of a question in there.

John shakes his head almost instantly.

"I know," he says, clearing his throat, trying for a smile and failing. He shuffles over to his chair and sits down, not knowing what to say.

Sherlock watches him closely, brows drawn tight, a deep crease on his forehead.

"Do you?" he asks sharply, walking over to sit opposite John, setting the violin carefully on the floor.

John frowns; despite everything that's still not okay between them, he’s never doubted the love Sherlock has for his daughter. He's been besotted with her since the day she was born.

"Of course," John says, not even trying to keep the irritation from his voice, "even the blind can see that."

Sherlock's eyes narrow but he doesn't say anything. Instead he stands again, walking over to Rosie, tugging the blanket around her more securely.

"She looks a lot like you," he says, “she's got your eyes." He stops to smile at the little girl who's snoring quietly now. "And your strong will."

John swallows hard, shaking his head.

"That's not me, that's M-" he bites his lip, screwing his eyes shut as the memories threaten to overwhelm him.

Sherlock doesn't say a word, only steps back from Rosie.

"That's Mary's trait," John finishes in a rough whisper, hiding his face in his hands.   

He hears soft steps and feels a hand on his shoulder, warm and strong and reassuring.

"Maybe," Sherlock murmurs, "but it's also yours."

John snorts, pressing his hands against his eyes to keep them from spilling over. Sherlock's touch is soothing, and for a while they stay like that.

Eventually, John exhales and Sherlock takes his hand away.

"Tea?" John asks, standing up, trying to shake off the memories.

"Please," Sherlock says, picking up the violin again, plucking the strings in the way that indicates that he's looking for another piece to play.

John wants to say something; about it being late, about waking Rosie again, or Mrs. Hudson, but as soon as Sherlock starts playing, he forgets about it.

It's barely audible, and once more John absently wonders how that's even possible. It's the same few notes he played earlier, haunting and sad and beautiful, and John doesn't have the heart to stop him. More often than not, it's Sherlock's only release, and John's going to be the last to take that from him.

He shuffles into the kitchen to make tea, listening to Sherlock filling the flat with music. While he waits for the kettle to boil, he watches Sherlock meandering through the sitting room, back and forth, lost in music.

And for the very first time, he doesn't restrict himself. Maybe it's the late hour, the coziness of the flat, the unspoken words between them, he can't really tell. His thoughts start to wander.  
What if this is what he needs? Not a new flat for Rosie and him but being here, with Sherlock, for the rest of his life? He knows that he loves Sherlock, always has and always will. Even Mary knew that.

 _‘I know what you two could become.’_ Her voice echoes in his head, and he sees her smile at him knowingly. And didn't he - didn't they - deserve to be happy after all this time? Now, that they're finally back together, in relative safety? It won’t be easy, but then again, John never really liked easy. He needs a bit of danger, of excitement in his life, and who better to give him that than Sherlock? Mary knew that, Sherlock knew that. And even though John has tried to ignore it, he also knows that an ordinary life isn’t what he craves.

The thought of moving out, of leaving this extraordinary man again, makes his stomach clench. They need each other. It's as simple as that. Without the other one, they fail; they fall apart. They have proven over and over again that only together they can succeed. They are made for each other, and somewhere during these past few months John had realized that. With Mary gone, and with her posthumous blessing, there was nothing in their way anymore but maybe John's own stubbornness. And even that is resolving, has been for a while now; the last remnants are melting to the wistful sounds of Sherlock's playing like snow in the sun.

Following Sherlock's lean figure with his eyes, John tries to envision a future with him, and with Rosie - she's part of their life now - and it's surprisingly easy. Sherlock has changed considerably. He's much more open now, much more human, and John can read him much better these days. The longer he watches him, the more John is sure that Sherlock wouldn't be opposed to sharing his life with him. Everything he's done, everything's he's accomplished, it has been for John, or for them both. Sherlock has not one selfish bone in his body, and John knows that Sherlock would do anything to protect them, to keep them safe from harm and make sure Rosie grows into the kind of strong and confident woman Mary had been.

But is that enough? Can they build a life together simply by depending on one another?

' _John, please, you know that's not all._ ' Mary's voice in John's head doesn't even make him flinch. He only smiles, tilting his head.

' _What do you mean?'_ he asks, pouring hot water into two mugs.

 _'Look at him,_ ' she whispers, and he can hear her smile. **‘ _Listen_ ** _to him playing his heart out. For **you** _.'

At that, John freezes. Not moving he listens, concentrating on the up and down of the notes floating around the room, filling it with all the things Sherlock can't say.

' _I wrote this for your father. He wouldn’t talk to me_ . _I thought I'd lost him.’_ Sherlock's words from earlier ring back in John's ear. And suddenly John remembers all the moments when Sherlock wouldn't talk, would retreat into his own head. He would play the violin though. And depending on his mood the pieces would sound angry, or sad, or -

John bites back a groan, and shakes his head, almost grinning at his own blindness.

' _And who has always been there for him? Who has he always been playing to?_ ' Mary's voice is fading.  

Sherlock's feelings, his very heart and soul, it has always been out in the open for John to see, to hear, to make his own. And he has been too blind to actually notice. In his defense, it hadn't been the most obvious choice of conveying one's feelings. But then again, they were never really good at it. They are learning now though, improving. Better late than never.

‘ _Atta boy,_ ' Mary whispered and he shoos her away, smiling softly.

He carries the tea back into the sitting room, setting it down on their respective tables by their chairs. Squaring his shoulders, he turns towards the other man who's still utterly lost in his music.

"Sherlock?" John asks quietly, reluctant to disturb him but determined to finally make things right. He steps forward, waiting for Sherlock to return to the here and now, a light frown on his face. John beckons him over, waiting patiently for him to put away the violin.

When he steps towards him, John unceremoniously takes his hand, stifling a smile as Sherlock tries to hide the surprise on his face.  
Without further ado he entwines their fingers, which earns him a gentle gasp.

"John?" Sherlock asks, confusion audibly lacing the word.  

And suddenly John doesn't know what to say; the words are stuck in his throat. For a long second he's terrified; then he remembers who is in front of him, and he searches his eyes, hoping he's still as transparent for Sherlock as he's always been. Only now he doesn't hide anything, tears down all the walls he's built all those years ago. He let's Sherlock see everything.

For a long moment they keep looking at each other, Sherlock assessing, John anxiously waiting. He is certain Sherlock will figure it out soon enough. And of course he does: with a sharp inhale and a beautiful blush on those high cheekbones.

"Oh John," he whispers as he comes to his conclusion, "I've always been yours. And always will be for as long as you'll have me.

John exhales, the invisible burden instantly lifted from his shoulders.

"As long as you will have us," he replies in the same hushed voice.

"You know I will," Sherlock says, "you are my family."

It comes out in the most natural, most matter of fact way that John's eyes suddenly fill with tears, and he does his best to blink them away.

"Come here, you", he sniffles, pulling Sherlock into a tight hug. Sherlock immediately wraps his arms around him, holding him close.

"I love you," John whispers into the crook of Sherlock's neck, not able to keep it inside. It has always been there, just below the surface but he'd never let himself say it. Now he can.  
Sherlock's arms around him tighten, and John feels him tremble. In turn he clings to him as well, brushing his lips against the soft skin of Sherlock's neck.

"I-," Sherlock starts, voice cracking. John smiles, pulling back enough to look at him.

Sherlock's cheeks are flushed; his expression is as open and vulnerable as John has ever seen it. He visibly fights to get the words out. John shakes his head, resting a hand on his burning cheek.

"Sh, it's okay, I know you do," he whispers, running his thumb through the wetness below Sherlock's eye. "Whenever you're ready."

"John," Sherlock rasps, frantically shaking his head, "I-"

"I know, Sherlock, I know," John soothes, the memory of Molly's confession still too fresh in both their minds. "Show me then," he murmurs, curling his fingers around the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock inhales sharply, and John's heart flutters as he feels the warmth of his breath against his cheek.

"I do," Sherlock says hoarsely, lids fluttering shut as he leans closer, his nose softly bumping against John, "I do."

John sighs as Sherlock's lips touch his. It's not hesitant or clumsy but secure and confident. Sherlock's large hands find their way into John's hair, gently caressing his head. John's fingers slip into Sherlock's soft curls, and he loses himself in their kiss.

Everything - finally - falls into place, like pieces of a puzzle, slotting together as it should be.

And as Sherlock's tongue nudges against John's lower lip, he hums approvingly, pulling Sherlock even closer, deepening the kiss. They're pouring all their sorrow and all their joy into it, and as John pulls back for some much-needed air, Sherlock's eyes are shining brightly.

"Together at last," John murmurs, wonder lacing his tone as he presses another kiss against Sherlock's mouth.

"As it should be," is Sherlock's low reply.

John can't look away, Sherlock's gaze is holding him captive, and for once he can read everything he needs to know in his beautifully expressive eyes. It is as if a veil has lifted, and for the very first time he can actually see _how much_ Sherlock cares. It's painful, and the most wonderful thing in the world.

But before he can kiss him again, a sharp cry has them both look over at the sofa.

"I'll take her," Sherlock says, his long fingers reluctantly leaving John's face, "don't go anywhere."

John watches him walk over and pick up Rosie, who's whimpering loudly.

"What is it, Watson? Do you want your bed now after all? Shall we try this sleeping thing again? Your father seems very fond of it." He keeps murmuring to her as he wraps her tightly into her blanket again, rocking her in his arms, walking towards the door.

"Sherlock?" John stops him before he can leave the room.

"Yes, John?" He turns. With the baby in his arms, his hair in disarray and his lips red from kissing, he looks so very young, so very human. It makes John's heart ache.

He shrugs, shaking his head, smiling. "Nothing, just..." He waves a hand around, feeling helpless and joyful.

Sherlock looks at him, and then smiles that half-smile that always makes John's knees go weak.

"Your tea's getting cold," he says, vanishing towards the stairs to put their daughter to bed.

And for once, all is right in the world.

 


End file.
